


Durin's Day

by deathwailart



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarves, Family Bonding, Gen, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Durin's Day in exile as shared by Thorin, Dís, Fíli and Kíli.  (See end notes for more)</p>
<p>Written for the prompt: fili and kili attempt to get their uncle into the christmas spirit by shoving eggnog down his throat and/or attempting to dress him like santa claus or putting wreaths and shit on him while he sleeps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Durin's Day

As the youngest within their circle of kin and might as well be kin and as the princes of the line of Durin, Durin's day and the time leading up to it always involves being rather spoiled as far as Fíli and Kíli can remember (and because Kíli is younger, Fíli confirms the hazy memories of the few years before his little brother came) and even if the adults have been having their strange whisper-shouts behind closed doors or saying 'not in front of the children' in sharp voices with a widening of the eyes that they normally only see when someone is reading them a story. All animosity is set to one side and they're told the stories of their origins by every grown up who comes to visit even if Kíli is more interested in trying to weave some of his wooden soldiers into Mister Balin's beard the way some ladies (but never mama) weave even prettier things into theirs at this time of year. Everyone is patient as they talk of old kings and Mister Balin simply untangles the soldiers to use as examples of the kings of old and it does the trick as two dwarflings happily sit at his feet then, legs crossed, elbows on their knees and chins in their hands, staring up as marches wooden figures gravely across the books in his lap.  
  
It could have something to do with how Mister Dwalin likes to slip them a gift each time – a few coins and a wink to buy yourself something nice, a toy each, a few sweets.  
  
Durin's day has no actual set date, not like Fíli's birthday, 'and mine, and mine!' Kíli always adds until mama tickles him mercilessly, kissing his cheeks before she tucks him into one side, Fíli at the other. Mama always explains the sun and the moon to them, the way they move because, and she says this very seriously after she has sworn them both to solemn secrecy, that uncle Thorin couldn't find his backside with both hands most days. It always ensures they'll be in fits of giggles the next time they see him, whispering to one another as he raises one eyebrow and looks very confused and apprehensive about possible mischief they're planning. Mama tells them about the Durin's days she knew with uncle Thorin and uncle Frerin and cousins Balin and Dwalin, grandfather Thráin, grandmother Skaði, grandfather Thrór and grandmother Urd and how the mountain echoed with the songs of their people singing the praises of the Valar but most of all Mahal who made their Seven Fathers and Durin the Deathless, the very first. She talks of how every forge and every fire burnt juniper branches until the king would cough and then the great doors were opened so they could breathe again. How the elves brought them water to sprinkle from a river (not the enchanted one they've heard stories about from Mister Dwalin who shudders like someone dropped a spider down his shirt – they know this because they've done it before and ran shrieking to hide behind mama's skirts) that Thorin and Frerin told her was made from tears.  
  
Their water isn't magic water (they don't learn that for years) but it comes from a river nearby where both the dead and the living cross – they consulted elves when they came, to be able to keep their ways and these elves cross on their way to the Grey Havens so it's declared fit for purpose – and mama promises it isn't made from tears. Thorin is the first to drink it, then mama then Fíli, then Kíli before they (they being mama and uncle Thorin) sprinkle it all over the house, even on the beds and _even_ on each other which is the very best part even if it's very confusing to a young dwarf about this sudden breaking of the 'don't you get water all over that you little badger' rule. Next comes the horrible part of the juniper branches and having to breathe in smoke until they sneeze and cough from the smell, the windows being flung wide. Uncle Thorin always goes very tight and mama clutches them so tight it hurts and when they're older they'll wonder how they could keep this tradition going, if they're so stubborn about customs when so many still remember dragon's fire choking them. But that's always the morning of the night before. Right now there's still a few days to go, long awful days of waiting as they eat delicious mincemeat pies and hot drinks spiced with ginger, snowball fights near the markets with other dwarflings their age.  
  
Mama often goes to see friends now that the boys are old enough to be very big nuisances, waking up in the middle of the night even after increasingly late bedtimes and more stories and more shouts of 'go back to bed or you'll know all about it' and invasions in the small hours where they crash into a bed hollering, 'is it Durin's day yet!' So uncle Thorin has to look after them with his confusing mix of expressions.  
  
"Maybe he's worried he'll make us miss Durin's day," Fíli ponders one night as Thorin dozes after a long day, him and Kíli playing in front of the fire. Kíli is making a wooden wolf covered in real wolf fur stalk one of Fíli's oliphaunts, making squeaky growling noises.  
  
"Well mama said he couldn't find his _bum_ -" which is as far as Kíli gets because bum is a very funny word and it makes him giggle, abandoning his current mission to look at their uncle. Who looks back because uncle Thorin always wakes up so quickly, his fear fading when he looks down at them.  
  
"What are you two up to?" He rumbles and Kíli takes the opportunity to pounce, mimicking a wolf's howl as he smacks his wolf against the oliphaunt.  
  
"Playing, uncle." Fíli replies with a big smile and uncle Thorin nods.  
  
"Good lads."  
  
He settles himself and dozes off again.  
  
"Fee," Kíli drags the word out as he rolls onto his stomach, chin on his folded arms. "Why doesn't uncle Thorin do lots of Durin's day stuff with us?"  
  
Fíli considers the question, screwing his lips up into a pout. "I don't know, I asked mama and mama looked sad and told me to make sure you weren't eating all the pies."  
  
In Kíli's defence, they are very good pies.  
  
"What's that smelly stuff the grownups drink?"  
  
"The one with the egg?" Kíli nods in response and both brothers make a face. Eggs are only nice when they're fried, white with a big blob of yellow in the middle to dip their chips and bacon in. "I know mama has a jug of it."  
  
"Maybe it's like the magic water!" Kíli claps his hands over his mouth when Thorin makes a grunting sort of noise, both of them holding their breath until he doesn't wake up.  "For grownups."  
  
"It's too smelly to be magic water."  
  
"Well Mister Dwalin sang after he drank lots of it."  
  
Fíli has to give his younger brother a point there. "So we make him drink some?" Kíli nods so Fíli gets up, hauls Kíli up and together they toddle off to the kitchen where it's agreed Kíli will keep watch because he can't really reach things or heft the big heavy jug. There's lots of huffing and puffing and scraping and an 'oops' when Fíli sloshes some on the floor but eventually they get it mostly in the glass. Mostly. It's a very sticky glass and Kíli makes an exaggerated gurning expression of disgust at having to carry it, sniffing his hand and screwing his face up even more like he's been sucking a lemon.  
  
"Grownups are very strange," he says with the kind of wisdom only a young dwarf can muster. Fíli, who came to this conclusion a few years ago agrees with a vigorous sage nodding and a quiet sigh of 'aye' the way the grownups do. Maybe if he can act like one, he can understand them. Mister Balin and Mister Dwalin and uncle Thorin all say that's how kings and generals lead their people and armies and Fíli's going to have to do that one day too.  
  
"You should lick some off your finger!" He suggests brightly, eyes twinkling.  
  
Kíli looks at his hand, then at his brother, then his hand again before taking a sniff of the drink. He looks very dubious.  
  
"You used to eat my hair when you were smaller," Fíli continues.  
  
Kíli repeats his looking routine, summons his bravery and touches the tip of his tongue to one finger. Then sticks his tongue right back out with lots of noises of disgust and Fíli ends up on the floor giggling until Kíli threatens to make him try some too. Luckily for them, Thorin snores and it reminds them of their plan, creeping quietly back through to where he's sleeping in the chair, setting the sticky glass beside him. Then Kíli hops up into his lap, Thorin almost swears in alarm then almost knocks the glass off the table and proves to be very alarmed and grumpy over the whole thing, marching around and tidying up and washing Kíli's sticky hands as he makes sure to extract the following promises: do not tell your mother, do not drink any of this until you're of age and do _not_ tell your mother.  
  
(In bed that night they agree they'll tell Mister Dwalin instead.)  
  
"What brought all that on?" Thorin asks when they return to the fire, a dwarfling on each knee, both snuggling in because uncle Thorin is very busy and he isn't around as much on the holidays because there are kingly things he's meant to be doing and he writes letters and the forge is very busy and lots of other things but when he is around, he never stops them from clinging like two 'particularly loud and smelly hairy limpets' (and he looks at Kíli when he says smelly and asks him if he'd like a bath.)  
  
"You don't do Durin's day things!" Kíli blurts out with as much indignation as he can fit in his small body.  
  
"Not with us!" Fíli adds because uncle Thorin _does_ do Durin's day things but if it doesn't involve Kíli then it doesn't really exist.  
  
"I see." Thorin's doing that pinched face mama gets whenever people say certain words like Erebor or Frerin or when the boys ask about the father Fíli barely remembers and that Kíli will only know through stories. "It's not Durin's day yet though."  
  
"But there's lots of stuff!"  
  
"Stories-"  
  
"And presents-"  
  
"And the...the things..." Fíli tries to remember the word, shaping his hands into a circle in the air, "it's got berries and leaves-"  
  
"A wreath?" Thorin asks and both boys nod although Kíli doesn't understand the wreath because it seems like a very elf sort of thing and Thorin doesn't really like elves although Kíli doesn't know why because he likes lots of elf stories but when he asks it's the 'I'll/we'll tell you when you're older' story and that's the worst kind of story in the whole world. "Your mother has one on the door."  
  
"But you didn't help make it. I did!"  
  
"Me too, me too!" Kíli chimes although Fíli doubts that Kíli's attempts to eat the leaves and his ability to just _look_ at the twine and have it turn into a mess of snarls and knots counts but he can be gracious and gang up on Thorin.  
  
Thorin rubs his chin as Kíli levers himself up to stare at him by way of putting his face uncomfortably close to Thorin's.  
  
"Has Balin told you about why we give gifts?" Both of them nod because if they understand that and understand it very well it means extra gifts. "Well it's always the kings or great lords or heads of their houses and clans who give out the gifts. My grandfather had beads and jewellery only for that one day, made of mithril, his beard would glow white."  
  
"Can we give you a white beard?"  
  
"Kíli lad, that's not the-"  
  
" _Please_ ," Fíli wheedles, gazing up imploringly.  
  
In the end, mama comes home and almost falls over laughing at the sight of Thorin in her armchair with flour all over his beard, his nephews with flour all over the rest of them. Thorin has an expression of wounded dignity mingled with fondness, the boys look proud.  
  
"Into the bath, all of you." Except mama doesn't sound cross the way she usually does when she spies dirty dwarflings in need of a washing and even Thorin chuckles as he scoops them up, one under each arm which is the second best way to be carried with the very best being up on someone's shoulders in order to get a better view and to have very handy reins. Unless it's Mister Dwalin.  
  
When Durin's day finally arrives and they've sprinkled water and coughed and sneezed, when they've exchanged presents and bounced between mother and uncle like a pair of wild animals and had a meal, a nap, another meal and a bath, they're bundled up in their very best clothes and told to behave. Mama wears an elaborate gown of deepest blue embroidered with silver and gold that both boys touch carefully – it's heavy to keep her warm, just like her cape – but the fabric on top is very soft and smooth. Her hair is braided with heavy clasps and beads, her eyes lined in gold and black paint, her lips painted red as blood. Even Kíli holds still long enough to have his hair braided, a clasp matching Fíli's to keep it out of place, only worn on special occasions. Uncle Thorin looks so very tall in his big boots and cloak, his tunic matching mama's but without the shiny parts until he puts on armour that he keeps on a special stand and polishes, the armour both boys peek at but never touch, instead looking at their reflections in it. There's a great fire burning in the square where the market is at the heart of Ered Luin and smaller fires can be seen for many miles in the dark as musicians play and sing and cavort, big drums and lots of fiddles and pipes. They follow along behind their mother and uncle who carry with them several packages, Fíli and Kíli keeping smaller ones as they mingle with lots of people, all of them with their faces flushed, flagons in hand, whooping as they toast their ancestors and the year to come. Both boys are trotted around with their mother and uncle until everything stops as if by magic when the drums beat a solid rhythm. They count down from ten and every drum beats at once on the stroke of midnight, a raucous cheer going up and the parcels are set down so the boys can be scooped up and kissed, passed around others until returned.  
  
It's wild and chaotic, a blur of heat and sound and colour as they're lead away from the party in the square and to the homes of people they know – Mister Balin and Dwalin first where Thorin hands over a parcel of salt, coal, shortbread, whisky and black bun, Misters Óin and Glóin and Mister Dori (where they see Ori and all three go under a table with lots of cake and tall glasses of juice, giggling and whispering as the adults talk) – where Thorin is welcomed warmly as some sort of good luck and they eat and drink a little and laugh and talk until suddenly they're being told they're back home, Kíli blinking himself awake and wondering why he's in his mother's arms as Thorin swings Fíli down from his shoulders. Both boys sit still as they're unbuckled and braided and told to go wash their faces and comb their hair and dress into their nightclothes and when they come back mama has hair unbound so it falls in curls instead of waves and Kíli crawls up next to her to wind it about his fingers until Thorin brings them warm milk and biscuits that they somehow manage to scoff.  
  
"I think you've got a pair of feral wargs there sister dear. Or they've got bottomless pits and not stomachs." Uncle Thorin laughs even though it's not that funny but his cheeks are flushed and eyes are merry and when he says he'll put them to bed he doesn't sing the usual song about a lonely mountain and fires and instead sings something happier, about old acquaintances and forgetting.  
  
Mama joins in near the end, the bit about hands as she leans over and clasps Thorin's, smiling even with tears in her eyes, the makeup washed away, her sons asleep between them in her bed as is custom. Thorin goes to change as she tucks them in, remembering when it was her and him and Frerin, her in the middle. The worst year was the first after Smaug and on the road when it was so hard to try to be joyful, that first year to move on without so many others.  
  
"It will get easier," she whispers, kissing her sons on the cheek and then him.  
  
"Aye, that it will," he whispers back and because it's Durin's day, he almost believes it.

**Author's Note:**

> Because Tolkien doesn't name female dwarves, I just went for names from Norse myth so here's a little more if you want to know where I got them from  
> Skaði  
> Urd - From the Old Norse Urðr meaning "fate". In Norse mythology Urd was one of the three Norns, or goddesses of destiny. She was responsible for the past.  
> If any of the traditions seem familiar to you at all then that's because, as a Scot, I picked something that sounded very much like Hogmanay for Durin's day given that it's described as New Year and no one does New Year and more importantly New Year's Eve, like the dwarves. Given it was a Christmas prompt, I mixed some of it – the gifts, the eggnog (another story about eggnog by someone who has never so much as sniffed it) and the wreath were specifics of the prompt.


End file.
